Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume X).djvu/62

Rh A pity! Such a remarkable creature, perhaps, came so close. . . and I did not take advantage of it, I repulsed her. . . . Well, no matter! Life 's all before me. There will be, very likely, other meetings, perhaps more interesting! 'But on what grounds did she fix on me of all the world?' He glanced into a looking-glass by which he was passing. 'What is there special about me? I 'm not a beauty, am I? My face. . . is like any face. . . She was not a beauty either, though. 'Not a beauty. . . and such an expressive face! Immobile. . . and yet expressive! I never met such a face. . . . And talent, too, she has. . . that is, she had, unmistakable. Untrained, undeveloped, even coarse, perhaps. . . but unmistakable talent. And in that case I was unjust to her.' Aratov was carried back in thought to the literary musical matinée. . . and he observed to himself how exceedingly clearly he recollected every word she had sung or recited, every intonation of her voice. . . . ' That would not have been so had she been without talent. And now it is all in the grave, to which she has hastened of herself. . . But I 've nothing to do with that. . . I 'm not to blame! It would be positively ridiculous to suppose that I 'm to blame.' It again occurred to Aratov that even if she